First Love
by Adara of Middle Earth
Summary: A young Boromir falls in love for the first time. The Steward's heir is injured in battle and is sent to Dol Amroth, where he falls in love with a Swan Knight's daughter. Complete
1. The Fates Can Be Cruel

This story is written for Casey Toh in honor of her 18th birthday. The story is about Boromir and events that happen to him the winter of his 18th year.  A young Mablung serves under a famous captain. _ The Atlas of Middle-earth_ describes Stonewain Valley in Gondor as being possibly stream-cut. Although the stream had dried up by the Third Age, I have resurrected it for my story.

Please note that I am writing this strictly for my own (and Casey's) enjoyment. None of the characters are mine and I certainly am not making any money off my efforts. 

First Love/The Fates Can Be Cruel

"Only one more hour before the sun rises." 

Two soldiers dressed in wintry colors that blended well with the surrounding landscape stood stoically in the freezing winds of late January in the year 2996 of the Third Age. Those who lived beneath the shadow of the White Mountains were all too aware of how bitterly cold the weather could become during the winter months. On this frigid night, a small contingent of Gondor's army was tracking orcs. They were led by a young, but highly respected, captain.

Reports had come to Minas Tirith several weeks before that the small orc band was holed up within Stonewain, a long and narrow valley running through Druadan Forest from near the Rammas Echor to stone quarries in the Ered Nimrais. The men of Gondor had built a great road through the Stonewain Valley many lifetimes ago; however, it had fallen into disrepair over the past century and was now a perfect place for orcs to shelter from the bright winter sun. Although the road was rarely used anymore, it was still a link to the watchtowers of the Beacon Hills, running behind Minrimmon and down to Amon Din, site of the first of the northern beacon towers of Gondor. A man on foot could walk from the beacon tower of Eilenach to Din in the period between sunrise and noon. Orcs could make the journey in almost half that time, burning and looting farms and homesteads as they marched. 

"Valar, it's cold out. As much as I value my Brindle, I'd gladly trade him for a warm bed."

The other man snorted. "You'd sooner trade your wife than that horse."

The first soldier had just opened his mouth to reply when the shrill cry of a screech owl silenced him. Both men peered anxiously into the early morning gloom, searching for whatever had startled the owl. "There, by the stream. Do you see them?" whispered the first soldier. 

"Aye, I see 'em. Should have been able to hear them a mile off. Not like orcs to be so quiet. You'd best get back to camp and warn the Captain." The first soldier, whose name was Ingold, disappeared soundlessly. The other, Mablung, remained at his post and watched the orcs as they moved cautiously toward the icy stream. One of them, an orc almost man-high, stopped and began sniffing loudly. His small, yellow eyes caught the faint light of the moon and glowed cat-like in the thinning darkness. 

Mablung shivered. No matter how many times he saw them, orc eyes always made him feel queasy, like he'd eaten something spoiled. Nothing else he'd yet seen in Middle-earth personified such evil. Mablung hunkered down even lower and prayed that the wind would not shift and carry his scent to the quarry. The Captain would post him to Osgiliath if he gave away their presence. 

The lilting song of a lark filtered through the trees behind him. Mablung watched the orcs closely. Although they halted their progress toward the stream, they did not appear to be alarmed. As they moved forward again, the soldier realized he had been holding his breath. Letting it out softly, he became aware of others coming up silently to his position. A male voice whispered, "How many are there?"

Mablung mutely answered his captain's question by signing the number 23. The other nodded and gave non-verbal commands to the rest of the company. Bows were nocked with arrows and swords were drawn quietly from leather scabbards. All stood ready, waiting for their captain's signal to attack. Just as the Captain was about to give the command, the wind shifted and began blowing against their backs, carrying their scent to the orcs. With the element of surprise gone, the Captain shouted orders for the archers to fire a volley into the enemy. Because orcs rarely persist against well-armed opponents, the Gondorian captain expected that he and his men would be forced to give chase. He was, therefore, completely unprepared for their bold and somewhat suicidal attack. What little of the orc band that remained after the first flurry of arrows rushed the company's position with no thoughts for their fallen companions.

The young captain barely had time to order his men to hand-to-hand combat before the orcs were upon them. "Valar, have you ever seen them move that fast?" Mablung asked breathlessly as he strode forward to meet an unusually large, and ugly, speciman. Ingold only grunted in reply, far too busy keeping two orcs from separating his head from his neck to reply. 

Mablung saw a large opening in his opponent's defense and quickly thrust his sword deep into its guts. Black blood gushed from the wound as the blade was withdrawn. The orc's look of surprise would have been comical if the creature had simply fallen to the ground as expected. Instead, it threw back its head and howled loudly enough to wake the dead. Surprised by the unearthly cry, the soldier was at first unaware that the creature was moving. By the time he did notice, it was too late to react; the orc was rushing toward him like a catapult and only two feet away.

A strong shove caused Mablung to lose his balance and he hit the ground hard. The impact left him shaken but alive. Mablung looked up to see whom he had to thank for his life and saw the Captain meet the orc's blade with his own. The two fought fiercely, steel meeting steel, as they engaged in an intricate dance of death. The Captain's skillfully intense and fierce, but graceful, style of fighting kept the orc off balance. The creature was desperately looking for a way to escape from the fierce warrior when it noticed a much smaller orc coming toward them, its long, curved blade propelled in a downward arc. The Captain saw a brutal smile spread across the creature's face only seconds before he heard the sound of a weapon slicing through air. 

Mablung shouted a warning, but it was too late to stop the saw-toothed blade from chewing its way through the Captain's hauberk. The force of the strike drove the chainmail rings deep into the Captain's flesh, even as the blade tore a ragged wound in his side. The larger orc howled victoriously and moved forward to claim his prize. The Captain, who had been knocked to the ground, looked upward just as the orc raised its weapon to deliver the killing strike. He would have called out for help, but the pain in his side was so severe he could not gather the breath to speak. The orc sneered triumphantly, raised its weapon over its head -- and was hit squarely between the eyes by an arrow from Ingold's bow. Mablung scrambled to his feet and rushed to the captain's side; he barked orders and soon a shield wall of human flesh protected the injured captain. The remaining orcs continued their doomed battle against Gondor's soldiers.    

Although the foe's numbers had been whittled down to a mere half dozen, there was still plenty of fight left in the survivors. The young captain managed to struggle to a kneeling position. He shoved his long sword into the tightly packed snow and leaned heavily upon it. Though he could not see the battle, he could hear it. He looked at the men surrounding him. _This is not right_, he thought. _I should be leading them_. Determined to reenter the fray, the young captain attempted to regain his feet.

"Stay down, my lord," shouted Mablung. "You dare not risk any more injuries. Let us finish those that are left." 

The Captain frowned his displeasure, but nodded his consent all the same. He watched as his men brought down the last of the unusually large creatures. _Strange_, he thought. _I do not remember encountering such a breed as this. They almost are as tall as my shortest men and nearly tireless. What new devilry is this?_ Seeing that the battle was over, the Captain again attempted to rise. He was halfway to his feet when a white-hot pain seared through his flesh, causing him to cry out. He looked down and saw blood spouting from a gaping wound. In the fading moonlight, it looked as black as orc's blood. The sudden loss of blood made his head pound, and he seemed to be seeing through a red veil. The young captain would have fallen if not for the quick action of his men, who grabbed him and eased him to the ground. 

Mablung started to remove the man's hauberk, saw how deeply the chainmail links had been driven into the flesh, and began shouting orders to the others. "Ingold, fetch some water from that spring; the rest of you make a litter for the Captain. We ride to Minas Tirith as soon as it is ready. The Lord Denethor will boil us alive if we allow his heir to die."

_Please See Chapter Two_


	2. The Patient

In Dol Amroth, Adrahil was the ruling Prince. Imrahil would have been about 45 years old. For this story, Prince Adrahil has put his son in charge of Boromir's recovery. 

The Patient

"How is my patient today?" Adonamir, chief healer to Denethor II, was irritatingly cheerful as he entered the spacious room where the Steward's elder son and heir was recuperating from the wound he had received during an ill-fated orc battle in the Beacon Hills. Boromir was sitting in a chair beside the hearth, staring glumly into the fire. He gave the healer a sideways glance and grunted something unintelligible. Adonamir took hold of the chair and yanked both it and its occupant backward.

"I fail to understand why my younger patients always give me the most trouble," the elderly physician complained as the young heir shouted obscenities learned in Gondor's army. "It is not my fault you were careless enough to be wounded; please do not make me suffer simply because you do. I am a healer, not a whipping post."

Boromir sighed. The man was correct. If he had been faster, or more skillful, or more observant, he would have avoided the orc's blade. He had been careless and that carelessness almost had cost his life. And it certainly was not Adonamir's fault he was confined to the Houses of Healing. "What is it you want now, Healer? I have submitted to your ministrations day and night for a fortnight. Am I not well enough to be left alone?"

Adonamir laughed. "You are out of danger, yes. But you nearly died from a combination of poison, which was obviously on the orc's blade, and a fever; your body suffers from the effects of both. It will take many more weeks before you are fit to wield a sword. If I were you, I would thank the Valar you are alive and enjoy your time away from the battlefield."

"I do not want time away from battle! I hate having nothing to do. I feel as though I am going mad!" Boromir stood up gingerly and grasped the stone mantel for support. "If only I had something to occupy my time," he added dourly. 

"I understand your brother offered to bring you books from your father's personal library. Why don't you use this time to catch up on your reading?" Boromir gave the healer a dark look.

"I do not enjoy reading. That is Faramir's passion. I prefer preparing warfare strategies and practicing the art of combat. I can do neither caged within the Houses of Healing!"

Adonamir looked at the young captain speculatively. "I might have an idea that would help your recovery AND your need for something to do. I will discuss it with the Steward this afternoon."

Boromir looked at the man suspiciously. "What is it you have in mind? I would like to hear this idea before it is presented to the Steward. If this plan is not to my liking, yet is approved by Father, I shall be forced to endure it." Adonamir, however, merely smiled and left the room. Boromir grumbled, "Impudent man! He did not even ask my permission to leave. He still treats me as though I were a child! I believe I shall tell him so." Angry, he walked stiffly to the door, pulled it open and found himself face to face with Faramir.

"Going somewhere, Brother? I thought you were confined to bed." Boromir stepped backward to allow Faramir enough room to enter. "I just passed Adonamir in the hallway. He looked rather satisfied with himself. Whatever is he up to? He looked quite like the Warg that swallowed the Orc."

Boromir shook his head. "He has come up with some plan that supposedly will keep me occupied while I mend. I shudder to think what it might be." Faramir raised his eyebrows.

"You know he has your best interests at heart. He wants to see you well, same as every man, woman and child in Gondor. As long as you have to wait to see what Adonamir is about, why don't we play a game of chess?" Boromir rolled his eyes. He found chess far too tedious and sedentary. It also made his head hurt. Yet he had to do something to pass the time. He watched glumly as his brother set up the board. 

* * * * * * * *        

(_Dol Amroth_)

Boromir sifted the fine sand through his bare toes. How he loved visiting Dol Amroth! He still could not believe that Adonamir had convinced the Steward to send his heir to the seashore. (Once Denethor was convinced that the sea air would speed his son's healing, it was only a matter of hours before a letter to Prince Adrahil was sent via courier and arrangements for Boromir's transportation via carriage were completed. It seemed that the young heir to the Stewardship of Gondor would be spending his 18th birthday at his grandfather's castle by the sea.) 

"Boromir, it is time you returned to the castle to rest. Your father was very specific in his instructions for your care." Prince Adrahil's heir, Imrahil, was standing upon the grassy slope just above the sandy beach. Because he already was dressed for supper, he was careful not to get sand on his shoes. 

"I am sick to death of being indoors and having people fuss over me! I have rested enough for two lifetimes. Besides, I find the sea air invigorating. My health will be restored much more quickly if I am allowed to remain." Imrahil shook his head and tried to hide a smile of amusement. Boromir's demeanor mimicked that of the Steward's to perfection, even down to the hands on the hips and the scowl on the face. 

"Alright, Nephew. I will allow you one more hour and one hour only. I will send a member of my household staff to escort you back. And, boy, you will come or I shall lock you in your room." Boromir gaped at his uncle.

"You would not dare! _I_ shall be the Steward of Gondor one day."

Imrahil chuckled. "Yes, but until then you must abide by your father's orders. Shall I write to him about your unwillingness to conduct yourself in a manner befitting a patient? I doubt the Steward will tolerate such insubordination, even from his own child and heir." 

Boromir sighed deeply. "Alright, Uncle. You win. I thank you for the extra hour and give you my solemn promise that I shall return without protest with whomever you send for me." Imrahil nodded, gave his nephew a smart salute, and began walking back to the city. He did not see the tears of frustration that trickled slowly down the young man's cheeks.

* * * * * * * * *

Boromir was walking in the surf, his head down, running battle strategies through his mind. He did not see the person his uncle had sent to fetch him until the two collided. Both fell onto the beach, which was ankle deep with water from the incoming tide. 

"Why don't you look where you are going? Are you feeble-minded, or just clumsy?" Boromir was more embarrassed than angry. He had been a captain less than a year and was mortified that someone had caught him off-guard. It had been an extremely difficult and long process earning the respect of soldiers who had already endured many years of combat experience. For that reason, there had been much resentment among the ranks toward the relatively inexperienced lad who had been handed the captaincy over men who had earned it with their blood. To compensate, Boromir had worked harder than any other soldier in Gondor's army to master skills that would earn his men's respect. One of the most important of those skills was never being caught off-guard.

Even before Boromir's backside hit the sand, his hand had drawn the long dagger kept secured at his waist. He would have been instantly on his feet if not for the still painful wound. As it was, he had to take a defensive posture from a sitting position. "Declare yourself!" the young captain shouted angrily. With his right hand Boromir held the dagger; his left hand was busy pulling at the wet hair that clung to his face and obscured his vision.

"I am sorry, my lord! I thought you would see me and stop. I did not realize we would collide until right before it happened. I am afraid I am not agile enough to have moved out of the way in time. Are you injured?"

Boromir froze at the sound of the voice. It was musical in tone and definitely feminine. He finally removed all the hair from his face and looked up at the figure standing over him. She was young, perhaps the same age as himself, and pleasingly shapely. He could not help but notice how well she filled out the bodice of her simple gown, which was wet and clung provocatively to her body. His eyes slid from her bodice to her slender waist, then downward to the tightly rounded curves of her buttocks. 

"Are you enjoying the view, my lord?" Her tone was mildly sarcastic and annoyed. Feeling guilty because of his lack of chivalry, Boromir muttered an apology before attempting to rise. His wet clothes, however, weighed him down and salt from the seawater entered the newly opened wound. Pain howled through his body. Not wanting to seem unmanly in front of this striking young woman, he pressed his lips firmly together to muffle any cry he would have made. The action, however, did not escape the girl's sharp eyes.

"My lord, you are in pain! Let me help you to your feet. I knocked you down and I will catch a beating if you have injured yourself further." The girl's face was now white; her large gray eyes were wide in alarm. Boromir put a brave smile upon his equally white face and tried to laugh off the pain.

"It is nothing; a minor twinge, but no more. Please do not distress yourself on my account." The girl looked unconvinced and continued to stand over him, wringing her hands. 

"Shall I help you stand, my lord?" She seemed unsure of what to do. Boromir smiled sweetly and offered her his hand.

"If you would be so kind as to help, we shall both make it back to castle in time for dinner." 

Relief flooded over her face and she bent to take hold of his hand. Boromir, however, was much heavier than she'd estimated. She had to place an arm around his waist and allow him to lean on her before he could rise. Both were panting by the time the stout warrior was securely on his feet. Even though he no longer needed the girl's support, Boromir was reluctant to release his hold upon her. He liked the way her softness felt against his body and, too, she did not seem to mind that he leaned against her.

"Can you stand on your own, my lord, or shall I continue to support you until we reach the castle?" It took a few moments for Boromir to realize that the girl was speaking to him. Only a week from his 18th birthday, the young captain's body was at its prime, both physically and sexually. His senses had been focused on the tingling inside his trousers caused by blood rushing downward in response to a totally unexpected surge of desire. He looked quickly up into the young woman's face and was relieved that she seemed unaware of his growing problem.

"I can stand on my own," Boromir said, his voice cracking ever so slightly. Then, gaining control of himself, the Steward's heir added, "I will not be seen leaning upon a girl. I have my reputation to think of!"

She smiled knowingly and continued to support him, waiting for a sign he was steady enough to stand on his own. Boromir was taking deep gulps of air, trying hard to calm his racing pulse. Sometimes he hated being young and vulnerable to a pretty girl's charms. As his breathing began returning to normal and the painful pressure in his trousers subsided, Boromir slowly released his hold upon the girl. It took several moments to accomplish the task, but he was finally standing unaided. He smiled at her shyly. "I am grateful for your kindness. Might I know your name?"

The girl blushed and ducked her head slightly. "I am called Miriel."

**Author's Note**:  This girl's namesake, Miriel, was the daughter and heir of King Tar-Palantir. She would have become Numenor's fourth Ruling Queen, but she married Ar-Pharazon who, as her husband, usurped the throne. Twenty-fifth and last King of Numenor, he assailed Mordor and brought Sauron back to Numenor as a hostage. Sauron, however, seduced him and persuaded him to sail on Valinor itself. As punishment for this act, the island of Númenor sank beneath the waves of the Great Sea. (From _The Encyclopedia of Arda_) We hope Boromir's love interest in this story does not cause the destruction of a kingdom.  

_Please See Chapter 3___


	3. Forever Loved

For those who keep track of dates, Boromir was born in the year 2978, two years after Denethor II married Finduilas of Dol Amroth. Boromir would have been 18 in the year 2996, unless my math is wrong.  The purpose of this story is to show how easy it is for young men to fall in love (read lust). It is the women who must be levelheaded.

Forever Loved

It had been several days since Boromir's encounter with Miriel. Once they had reached the castle's main gates, Dol Amroth sentries had taken charge of the Prince's grandson and Miriel had disappeared like a puff of smoke. Boromir's wound had indeed reopened, but he refused to say how. The last thing he wanted was for her to be punished because of his carelessness. Imrahil had been adamant that Boromir remain confined in the House of Healing until he was completely recovered.

With nothing to occupy his time, Boromir found himself constantly thinking about the young woman. He filled his days imagining what she might be doing, and the nights dreaming about her beauty. More than once he awakened to find the sheets drenched in sweat. The servants feared that the soaked sheets might be due to the return of his fever, though the chief healer said otherwise. The Steward's heir had become restless and extremely moody, and they were at their wits' end to find a way to keep the young lord happy.

* * * * * * * * * 

"The healers tell me that, although your health is improving, your disposition is not. What ails you?" The Prince of Dol Amroth's son did not like his nephew's depressed demeanor. Boromir sat slumped in a high-backed chair beside the room's small hearth, chin cupped on the palm of one hand, eyes staring vacantly into the fire. Imrahil could not remember a time when he had seen Boromir so low. Worried, Imrahil pulled up a chair across from his nephew and sat down. "What is wrong? You are not your usual complaining self." He waited for the caustic reply such a comment usually elicited, but his nephew remained uncommunicative. Imrahil sighed. "What can I do to make the time pass more pleasantly for you during your convalescence? I know it has not been easy for you, lying in bed with nothing to do. "

Boromir's dark gray eyes moved from the fire to his uncle. "I am bored. I have no one my age to talk with. In fact, the only person my age I have seen is that young woman you sent to fetch me. Miriel, I think her name was." Imrahil was watching his nephew closely and so did not miss the slight flush that crept up his neck as he spoke the girl's name. 

_Ah_, he thought. _Boromir pines for the lovely Miriel_. _Now I know what ails the lad_. Aloud, he said, "The sick room is no place for young ladies. Besides, she has been busy with preparations for the feast in honor of your upcoming birthday. Miriel is a valuable member of my household. Her skills for planning parties and formal dinners for dignitaries are legendary."

Boromir turned his eyes back to the fire and attempted to make his voice sound nonchalant. "Is she one of the kitchen servants?"

Imrahil chuckled. "Nay, lad, Miriel is not a servant. She is the daughter of the Captain of my father's Swan Knights. After she completed her education she wished to find something to fill her days besides knitting and sewing. She has a good mind and a gentle disposition, and gets along stunningly with all manner of people. When her father asked if we might have some little chore to set her to until he could find her a suitable husband, I immediately suggested she oversee the entertainment of Prince Adrahil's guests."

Boromir immediately brightened and sat up straighter in his chair. "I am a guest. Could she, perhaps, see to my entertainment?" Imrahil frowned. 

"Exactly what sort of entertainment did you have in mind? Miriel is not one for dalliances, and her father is extremely protective of her virtue. If it is company for your bed you seek, I must insist you search elsewhere." 

Boromir was indignant. How could his own flesh and blood think him so base?! "Uncle, I would never soil her good name. I merely wish for someone my age to talk to. And to play chess with." He looked at Imrahil guilelessly and with what he hoped was a sincere expression. He was relieved to see his uncle relax and even smile. 

"If that is all you want, then I will ask the lady if she is willing to make the time to keep my nephew from becoming bored." Boromir's face brightened considerably. Imrahil was suddenly worried that pairing the two was not such a good idea. "I must reiterate that Miriel will only be here to improve your state of mind. The healers say you will never heal properly if you continue to mope about. I must caution you, Boromir, not to get your hopes up that something will come of this. Miriel has dashed many young men's hopes by her unwillingness to play what she considers silly games of the heart. Her father fears he will never marry her off." 

Boromir looked dismayed. "Surely you are not about to withdraw your offer to have Miriel visit me? Uncle, please. I wish only for her company, not her hand in marriage or anything related to _that_ subject. Please tell her that, if it will set her mind to rest."

Imrahil chuckled. "I will certainly relay your feelings to the lady. Mayhap she will consent to keep you company during the remainder of your convalescence." Imrahil rose from the chair, walked to his nephew's side and placed a hand gently upon the young man's shoulder. "Do not despair, Boromir. If Miriel refuses, I personally will find ways for you to spend your free time. In fact, I could use a chess partner myself. Would that cheer you up?"

Boromir swallowed hard. He could tell by the twinkle in his uncle's eyes that he knew Boromir was not particularly interested in the game of chess. However, he certainly could not admit that he had used his request for a game of chess as a ruse to see Miriel. "That would be most agreeable, Uncle Imri. I look forward to it … if Miriel refuses." 

Imrahil slapped his nephew lightly upon the shoulder and left the room. Boromir heard him whistling as he walked down the corridor.

* * * * * * * * *  

Denethor's heir was watching gulls swoop down upon the waters that formed the Bay of Belfalas. Boromir was standing alone upon the promontory, restless, waiting for Miriel. The two young people had spent a couple of afternoons together in the garden adjacent to the House of Healing. Boromir still could hardly believe the young woman had agreed to spend time with him. Although he had requested her company, he had doubted that she would acquiesce. But the lady had and now he was smitten with her. 

The young captain was not certain that spending any more time with her was a good idea. Her dark beauty was driving him to distraction and he was not certain he could continue to control himself. Other than a few visits to the brothels in Minas Tirith, he had no previous experience with women. Miriel was the first female who was not a family member he actually had talked to for any length of time. The afternoon they met, he was ill at ease and extremely short on conversation. His father had been more concerned that his son learn the art of battle and so had neglected to teach Boromir the finer art of courtship. Today was his 18th birthday and his knowledge of women was limited mostly to what the "ladies of the night" had taught him between the sheets of their beds. There were times when the young heir deeply regretted that his mother had not lived long enough to round out his education. This was definitely one of those times.

He smelled her even before he heard her. The keen instincts that kept him alive in battle were now attuned to the person approaching his position. A broad smile tilted the corners of Boromir's mouth and he turned to face her.

"My lord, I am here. How can I serve the Steward of Gondor's heir?" Boromir's breath caught in his chest as he saw how beautiful she looked framed in the pink glow of the sunrise. 

"I, er, I ..." Boromir stopped speaking, unable to think of words that were appropriate for a lady. He wanted to tell her how lovely she looked and how grateful he was for her company. Were she a courtesan, he would have asked her to lie with him then and there. But what could he say to the daughter of the Captain of the Swan Knights? 

"Perhaps I could suggest something?" Miriel's eyes glinted with humor, embarrassing Boromir even further. "Shall we go down and walk along the beach? I promise not to overtire you, my lord." Boromir nodded in agreement and they started down the steep bluff. Boromir looked back once and saw two castle guards watching them from a discreet distance. Even within the relative security of Dol Amroth his safety was not taken for granted.

The two walked side by side for nearly half a mile before the young heir began to feel light-headed. His pride, however, kept him from saying anything and he trudged resolutely beside the much healthier Miriel. She finally noticed his color and came to an abrupt halt. 

"You should have said something. You are in pain! Come, let us sit upon the grass at the beach's edge." She took Boromir's hand and led him to a grassy spot. As she began to take off her cloak, Boromir's chivalrous side took over.

"Here, now, keep your cloak. It is too cold for you to be without. We shall use mine. I feel too warm with it on and so will not miss it." As he began unfastening the silver brooch at his throat, Miriel placed her hands over his. 

"Nay, my lord. We will sit on mine and share yours. Is that satisfactory?" Boromir noted a slight flush to her cheeks and wondered if she had something in mind besides sheltering from the cold. He quickly discarded that idea, however, because Miriel was, as Uncle Imrahil had said, a lady and definitely not one for a mere dalliance. He watched her closely as she shook out her cloak and laid it upon the ground. Turning, she smiled shyly and held out a hand to him. As soon as her flesh met his, Boromir's heart began to beat rapidly, his pulse jumped and he felt the familiar tightening in his trousers that was always welcome in the brothels, but was an embarrassment in this particular time and place. 

Hoping she would not notice his discomfort, Boromir allowed himself to be led to where the cloak lay. He helped Miriel sit down, then eased himself gingerly into a sitting position.

"You look uncomfortable, my lord. Is there anything wrong?" Her eyes were guileless and Boromir doubted she was mocking his condition or, for that matter, was even aware of it. 

"I have exercised far more than is wise for my health. It is only that my wound causes me discomfort, nothing more." He tried to look as though he was putting on a brave front just for her so that she would not guess the truth. 

"We should go back. The Prince and his son will never forgive me if I bring you back in worse health than when we left. I am supposed to take your mind off your injuries, not make them worse." Boromir smiled and took one of her small hands in his.

"I know a way you can make me feel better. Mayhap you could grant me a kiss?" Miriel blushed deeply and turned her gaze away from him and to the bay.

"You ask much, my lord, for I have never kissed a man who is not a relative. I do not believe my father would approve."

Boromir felt foolish. Why would a young woman from a good family even consider such an intimacy with a man to whom she was not betrothed? "I do not know what came over me, my lady. Please forget I said anything. I did not mean to offend you." He began to rise but she took hold of his arm to stop him. 

"I take no offense, my lord," she said softly.

Boromir settled next to her again, pleased that she still wanted his company. "Please, call me by my name. 'My lord' sounds so informal."  Miriel smiled shyly, whispered his name, and they sat silent for several minutes. He thought he could hear her heart beat, but deemed it more likely that it was the sound of his own racing heart. Unexpectedly she leaned against him and placed her lips lightly upon his. Boromir had to fight the instinct to put his arms about her, for such an action could lead to more intimate contact. After what seemed an eternity, Miriel pulled away from him. Her eyes, however, remained locked upon his.

"You requested a kiss, and a kiss I have bestowed, but only because it is your birthday. Are you satisfied?" Instead of answering her, Boromir moved forward and attempted to kiss her back. She placed two fingers upon his lips and he froze. "Do you see a future for us?" Boromir looked perplexed and Miriel continued, "Would you even consider marrying the daughter of a soldier? I am not of noble birth. Think you that your father would give us his blessing to wed should we wish it?"

Boromir sighed. "I believe I am falling in love with you, Miriel. I cannot think beyond this moment." Her light laughter startled him.

"I believe you are confused, my lord. My father has warned me against such pretty words spoken by a man who hardly knows me. I believe you want something more than I can give. Perhaps we should return to the castle." Boromir frowned. He felt as though she was mocking him.

"I am not an inexperienced fool who does not know his own heart. I believe that my feelings for you are true ones. Who are you, an innocent maiden, to judge the sincerity of my feelings? You know nothing of men; therefore, how can you know their motives?"

Miriel threw back her head and laughed until tears sprang from her eyes. "Do you honestly believe that a few nights spent in a brothel make you wiser than I?" She smiled knowingly at his surprised look. "Aye, Boromir, I have heard of your exploits -- both on and off the field of battle. You have been the main target of gossip since you arrived in Dol Amroth. Even though you say you may be in love with me, I believe you will agree that we shall never have a future together as man and wife. Therefore, I suggest we content ourselves with being friends. I should truly consider it an honor to be your friend." Saying this, Miriel held her breath, afraid that the young man beside her might become angry. He was, after all, Prince Adrahil's grandson and the future Steward of Gondor. She doubted that too many women refused his advances.

Boromir looked deeply into her wide, gray eyes and saw that she was sincere. Surprisingly, he felt relieved. The whole situation had become far too complicated for him. "I should be honored to have you as my first female friend. And, despite your protestations, I do love you." His tone challenged her to disagree with him again.

Miriel sighed. She was grateful that there would be no ugly confrontation. She smiled shyly and leaned toward him. "To seal our friendship, I grant you one more kiss -- but only one. Do you agree? You may consider it my birthday present to you." 

Boromir nodded solemnly and remained unmoving as she again pressed her soft lips upon his. He longed to take her into his harms and kiss her the way the women in the brothels had taught him, but knew that was not the way mere friends should kiss. When the kiss was finished and Miriel had moved away from him, Boromir was surprised to find that he was not aroused. "When I leave Dol Amroth, will you write to me?" he asked.

Miriel looked surprised. "Why, whatever could I write that would be of interest to a warrior such as yourself? I fear that my life will seem dull compared to your life as a captain of your own company."

Boromir grimaced. Only someone who had never been to war would think of a soldier's life as glamorous. "I should enjoy hearing about life in Dol Amroth. As you can see by my wound, there is nothing attractive about battle. I would be grateful for the distraction. So, is it settled? Shall we be friends?" Miriel nodded enthusiastically. "Then I shall write to you of my life in Minas Tirith and about my battles. And in return, you shall tell me all the boring details of your life here by the sea."

Miriel looked out over the Bay of Belfalas. "I would not trade my life for yours, even should I know I would some day become the most powerful person in Gondor." Turning to face the young man beside her, Miriel said solemnly, "I pledge my loyalty and my friendship to you until death us do part."

Boromir picked up a corner of his cloak from the ground and unfastened the silver brooch. He hefted its weight in his hand before offering it to Miriel. "I should like you to keep this to remember me by."

Miriel shook her head. "Nay, I cannot. It is far too grand a gift for a mere friend. Were I to wear that it would certainly set tongues to wagging. It is the emblem of the House of the Stewards and it must be worth a king's fortune. Nay, my lord, you keep it. It is enough that you leave me with such a happy memory and that you have asked to be my friend." Boromir nodded his understanding and replaced the brooch upon his cloak. "Now, we must away. It is your birthday, you know, and it would not do to be late to your own party. Besides, I believe that your Uncle Imrahil has sent guards to fetch you back."

Boromir placed a hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the glare of the sun. "Nay, Miriel. Those are your father's men. It is well we did not share but a kiss. Even my position as the Steward's son could not save me had we done aught else."

Miriel grinned impishly, took his arm and helped him stand. They began walking toward the guards, hand in hand. They would remain friends until the day Boromir died at Amon Hen. 

**Authors Note**: Despite Miriel's protestations, Boromir left the silver brooch in the keeping of his Uncle Imrahil, who became Prince of Dol Amroth in TA 3010. After the War of the Ring, Imrahil gave the brooch to Miriel, who was by then married and the mother of two strapping boys, one of whom was named Boromir.

THE END 


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